


Where the bee sucks

by Itsapon



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsapon/pseuds/Itsapon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond comes back from a mission, and discovers a side of his quartermaster he hadn't quite expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the bee sucks

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick drabble I came up with when I learned that apparently, Ben Whishaw can sing.   
> Pretty much listened to it in repeat while writing it;   
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oxp2_OOdvs

Explosion. Fire. 

There would have been screaming, if James had not secretly put heavy sedative in their drinks. Instead of horrified shrieks and crying, the whole royal family slept peacefully while their secret safehouse burned down to the ground; soon every trace of their existence would be gone.  
James shuts his eyes.  
"The amount of disaster tells me that you either finished the job, or managed to mess up terribly."  
"Do I hear worry in your voice, Q?" James retorts, slinking away in the shadows even when the whole world around him is chaos and panic and firemen and death.  
"Some of us actually like to go home at a decent hour, 007. Please return shortly."  
Duty calls.  
James grits his teeth, crushes his earpiece under his foot and vanishes from the face of earth.

~~~~~~

The slight stumble in his step tells him it's time to head home.

His head hurts, not only from the alcohol and the exhaustion, but also from his mind being filled with terror and a bitterness that seems to follow England's best spy everywhere he goes.   
The cool air hits his face when he exits the obscure pub he's been sulking in, and James begins heading toward the general direction of his apartment - walking because flagging a cab would require interaction, and he loathes interaction - but then abruptly stops, frowning.  
Home.  
That expensive and clean, yet cold and empty space he he pretends to live in for a short moment between voluntary getting shot at? His bed where he maybe only slept in twice, not counting the times in which he had company to soothe his wounds ( and of course they don't count. They never do. He never sleeps with company anyway. Not since Vesper.)?  
The only things that James feels any attachment to are his couch and his drinking cabinet.  
Q is probably home now.  
James snorts. Secretly he hopes that the posh and way-too-young man is still at HQ, cleaning up James' mess and checking CCTV all over the city for him.   
Not that he'd find the agent; James knows where to go when he does not want to found.  
Or he just gave up after a quick scan; he's been gone for months several times before - they won't miss him for one night.   
In a sudden fit of anger, James suddenly changes direction and stalks off in a brisky pace until he found his new destination.  
Most of the people get to go home after their job's finshed. Go to their families, lovers, or even pets and have dinner, maybe watch a match, or a movie.  
They get to leave work.  
James doesn't.  
Wherever he goes, he is always on the lookout for spies, danger, assasins. Whenever he tries to sleep he hears the screams, smells the burnt flesh, sees death.  
And when M needs him, he's there.  
He is not an employee or even human; he's just a tool - a killing machine to be stored somewhere until it's needed again. And however much James would love to hate M for this ( the M that is now dead, no guilty consiousness plagueing hér mind anymore.), he knows that this - this is what he lives for, and could never leave until he draws his last breath.  
A slow, capricious drizzle starts to fall from the clouds above, covering London in his oh-so famous grey misery that it is accustamed to.  
At least the weather knows not how to stop being such a pest either.

~~~~~~

By the time he gets there, the mist has drenched him to the bone, and James shivers slightly as he gazes up towards the building.  
Contrary to what you'd expect with a salary such as his, Q lives in a very sober apartment block, on the corner of a busy crossroad that even now in the dead of the night sees the occasional nightwalker and car.  
Hiding in plain sight or plainly stupid, James presumes, as he starts advancing the building.  
One of the downfalls of an ordinary apartment in a suburb of London however, is the fact that its security is shockingly lacking.  
It does not even take fifteen minutes for James to get in and learn at which number Q lives.  
One of the corner-apartments at the top floor, apparently. Great view, and enough emergency exits, if you could fly.  
Waiting for the elevator to crawl its way up James wonders briefly about what he's going to do.  
It's nearing 4 AM, so James assumes that Q is either sleeping, or about to do so. But he can wait, just sit quietly in a corner until his dear quartermaster wakes up again and startles to find his agent lurking.  
It'll teach him about security, James thinks, even if he knows that Q has done him nothing wrong, and what he is doing is very childish.  
But he's drunk and tonight, he does not feel like rationality. Rationality does not kill innocent little children. Rationality does not poison pregnant women.  
The lock proves not to be a difficulty, and even though James suspects for at least one virtual alarm to trigger, the apartment stays eerily quiet.   
Suddenly he's glad that for once he managed to salvage his gun – not that he would give it back, if only to live up to his reputation – and, finger ready on the trigger, he sneaks forward.

Hallway, blending into a living room with a balcony on the right, with the kitchen right on the corner and bed- and bathroom at the far left. Knowing from years of experience how to keep silent, James lets his eyes adjust to the pitchblack never-quite-darkness that is so typical of London, ears alert to any kind of sound.  
The curtains at the balcony are opened and billowing softly in the not-quite London breeze, bringing in the faint smell of smoke and rain.  
Not asleep then.  
Standing stock still, James ponders his next move. According to the half-open door of the bedroom, his quartermaster has had trouble sleeping, and for some reason this fact makes James hesitate.  
Maybe he should leave, maybe come back here later when the sun shines and the world is normal again.  
James takes another two, three careful steps forward towards the open balcony door.  
Now he can see the hunched silhouette of the younger man, clothed in jeans that seem too big for his frame and a worn pullover that looks like it's at least five years old. He is leaning against the railing of the balcony, a cigarette dangling from the elegant bony fingers of his right hand, face turned towards the starless sky.  
James is about to turn back, away from such humanity, away from such fragility, when a sound nearly scares him out of his skin.  
Q is singing.  
A soft, warm melody trickles past the curtains into the dark living room, it's tones beautiful and rich, yet soaked with a bitter sadness that chills James more than the forgotten rain did just before.  
He does not understand the words, nor even knows what language it is, but the underlying raw feeling of loneliness pins James to the ground, and his breath hitches soundlessly.  
Suddenly James realises that he's not the only one.  
The apartment, lack of security, wide windows - they are not strategy, or even arrogance. They are a morbid hope for someone who does not have the courage to take a life, even maybe his own.  
He clearly has had a whiskey too much, James thinks, for out of nowhere he starts to feel a bit sentimental.  
However, before he can dwell on it, the song abruptly ends, and James crashes back down to reality.  
He blinks, and just in time sees the cigarette carelessly flicked over the edge of the balcony, but is too late to hide before Q turns around and stares him straight in the face.  
But even though thousands of alarm bells sound in his head, Q doesn't react to the sight of James at all, and the older man blinks again.  
Ah, no glasses.  
Only a fool would walk around blindly in the darkness. Then again, aren't we all.  
Q steps into the living room and while he turns to close the balcony, James makes use of the sound to quickly retreat back to the hallway, slipping past the front door, neatly closing and sliding the lock back into place - leaving his gun on the doormat.

~~~~~

The next day he goes straight towards M's office, where he throws down his mission report under the surprised yet watchful eyes of his boss.  
Luckily, he gets a new mission immediately, and after being briefed, he goes to his quartermaster for his equipment.  
"Ah, 007. Busy, aren't you? For this mission no extra tools, it's too short notice, I'm afraid."  
"Budget cut? Feeling the crisis even here?"  
"If only you brought back my equipment, you'd be able to use them more often. For now, I only got the spare gun I keep laying around because I know you always miraculously manage to destroy yours. Please spare me the details this time."  
James looks down at the gun that Q has placed on the desk before him. The same he'd been holding not even five hours ago.  
Q looks tired.  
Picking up the gun in a nonchalant manner, James pockets it, and nods curtly at the younger man before exiting the office.  
Duty calls. 

~~   
Fin


End file.
